


The Wolf and the Songbird

by haganenoheichou



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Friends With Benefits, Heartbreak, M/M, Obtuse Men with Repressed Feelings, Pining, Rough Sex, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:08:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22373887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haganenoheichou/pseuds/haganenoheichou
Summary: To be fair, neither of them knew how it'd begun. Somehow, over the course of the many weeks, months that they had traveled together, it had seemed logical to start this sort of relationship. Why pay for this when one could have it for free, at the hands (the mouth, the body) of a trusted companion?Jaskier pines for his Witcher and Geralt is emotionally constipated. You know the drill.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 20
Kudos: 686





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'll just say this: I want to protect these dimwits so much.

To be fair, neither of them knew how it'd begun. Somehow, over the course of the many weeks, months that they had traveled together, it had seemed logical to start this sort of relationship. Why pay for this when one could have it for free, at the hands (the mouth, the body) of a trusted companion? 

Logic had been what had led him to this, Jaskier thought absent-mindedly, as Geralt's bruising hands squeezed his hips, preparing him for a mighty thrust. All rationality left him then, when the man pushed in once more, drawing a moan from his tired throat. He knew he'd be hoarse the next day, making it so much harder to earn coin for their next stay at an inn. But it was worth it, so worth it, especially when Geralt's firm, warm body enveloped him, inside and out. 

"You were quiet tonight." 

"Hm?" 

Jaskier turned his head to look at Geralt's relaxed face – well, as relaxed as he could afford, he supposed. The two of them were huddled under a multitude of furs on the forest floor, with Geralt's much larger form providing Jaskier with some protection from the weather. The Witcher's arm hung loosely over Jaskier's bare hip, his fingers dipping in to trace the remains of his pleasure left on Jaskier's skin from time to time. The bard tried not to shiver, not to lean into the touch, and instead forced his body to remain neutral.

"Quiet. You're... usually more... noisy," Geralt said, and Jaskier huffed an offended breath. 

"Perhaps I just didn't feel like being _noisy_ tonight, you brute," he mumbled, glancing away from Geralt's face and back at the tree he had been unfocused on. 

"Distracted?" Geralt asked, unusually talkative. 

"What's it to you?" Jaskier snapped, with a little more vitriol than he had intended. He felt Geralt tense up behind him, and then the Witcher laid back down, making himself comfortable on the bedroll and tugging the bard closer like some sort of comfort blanket. He didn't say anything else, and Jaskier refused to continue the conversation since he didn't really know himself why he'd felt so detached. When they had just started this, being with the Witcher had been exhilarating. Though he never made it explicit, most of his songs nowadays had to do with how good Geralt was fighting monsters and wrestling him in bed. Now, though, that the newness had worn off some, it almost felt bitter, to be doing this with a man he knew didn't have much warm feeling toward him. To be doing it with someone who was supposed to be cold as ice, but was instead a dense, brick wall. 

Perhaps, in the next town, they would seek the company of other people. Perhaps then Jaskier would be able to reset this feeling and come back to the exhilaration of bedding the Witcher. Perhaps then he would be able to feel grateful for this experience instead of bitter. Perhaps Geralt would... 

No, never mind. 

* * *

The thing about bedding a Witcher was that they had insatiable appetites and stamina that was potentially infinite. The thing about bedding Jaskier was that he was incredibly determined and well-practiced when it came to the art of sexual pleasure. In any case, both of them continued to be pleasantly surprised at the other's vigor, which was great to stave off frustration, but not that great for the sleep schedule. At a certain point, Geralt had to put an end to their regular all-night-long sessions just to get some shut-eye. Jaskier, though a little disappointed, was also happy to get rid of the bags under his eyes. 

The thing was that even when they weren't going at it like rabbits, they still slept together. And that, though logical to some, was somewhat uncomfortable to the bard. Geralt had made it quite clear through a series of grunts and glares that what they were doing was pure release, sexual, sometimes almost violent in its physicality. There were no soft touches or whispered affectations. Except for when they went to sleep, still curled around each other, and the mood would shift, going from desperate and carnal to something almost tame. Geralt would trace the outlines of Jaskier's body, and the bard would sometimes reach out to twirl a strand of the Witcher's hair around his fingers, playing with it as if it were a ribbon. Without the sex before that, then, Jaskier would have expected those moments to wane and disappear. There seemed to be no need for aftercare, no need for reassurance, which he knew was a lie but refused to acknowledge first. 

So why were they still sleeping together, fused in each other's arms, with Jaskier's head sometimes finding purchase on Geralt's chest, or the Witcher sliding down the bedroll and ending up awake with his cheek on the soft membrane of Jaskier's belly? It was a complicated question, and Jaskier did not dare to voice it because he didn't want to shatter whatever illusion of camaraderie they shared. Bringing things up with Geralt often led to conflict, and Jaskier was more than happy to put up with the slight discomfort just to wake up next to the Witcher's broad form every morning. 

* * *

Bringing Geralt to the banquet had been a terrible idea. The man, clad in silken clothing whose stitches appeared to be clinging for dear life, had been perfectly happy to just brood in the corner while the bard earned his keep, hands clasping a goblet of wine tensely; when suddenly, he had been approached by an attractive lady whose entire entourage appeared absolutely gobsmacked and terrified by the prospect of her inviting the monstrous Witcher to dance. And yet, after some convincing, Geralt placed the goblet onto an empty table and allowed the lady to lead him to the floor, her slight hand loose in his much larger one.

Jaskier played his lute, a mellow tune in his throat, but he couldn't help his eyes from darting to the side of the room where the two danced. Surprisingly enough, Geralt was quite nimble on his feet, the grace obtained perhaps through his extensive training in swordsmanship. The lady was several heads shorter than him, creating the illusion that he was a much larger beast than he actually was. The contrast seemed to call the attention of some of the attendees, and before long, there was a buzz of gossip surrounding the two, idle tongues wondering whether the Witcher had defiled a noble daughter of so-and-so. 

The song couldn't end soon enough, and Jaskier made the rash decision of cutting out the last verse and ending on a sharp chord, which seemed to startle the rest of the guests out of their rumor-filled stupor. Geralt, appearing as disinterested as he had at the beginning, bowed mutely to the crestfallen lady, and went back to his self-designated corner, another goblet already in his hands. Jaskier, satisfied with the outcome, slid into a jig. He refused to dwell on why he had felt so unwell watching Geralt dance with the little lady. Perhaps he had just been concerned for the girl. Geralt was sure to have stomped on her foot at least once. 

That night, they were allocated a room in the baron's mansion, and Jaskier somehow ended up straddling Geralt's lap on the cow skin before the fire, the movement of his hips fast and desperate as he yearned to get his fill of dancing for the night. Geralt's fingers bruised him, but he didn't care, ripping at his hold and launching himself down like a man possessed. He wanted to hurt Geralt, to make him feel just as bruised, a futile endeavor. Still, the anger and desperation that fueled Jaskier's actions refused to listen to reason. 

Geralt didn't seem to mind. Though his eyes remained curious and narrowed, he allowed his body to be taken care of by the fast pace of the bard's ministrations. He hummed his approval and grunted when Jaskier tightened around him with a moan. This was the kind of sex Jaskier was used to with the Witcher – rapid-fire, hot as the pits of hell and wordless, completely wordless save for the sounds they made naturally as they approached their release. 

This was simple. 

With that thought in mind, Jaskier spilled between them, a sharp groan on his lips, and Geralt followed suit, his body tight, muscles like cords of steel. They fell onto the rug, Jaskier splayed on top of Geralt's chest, panting and sweaty. 

They spent a few moments lying there, just listening to sounds of their own breath. 

"I think I should sleep separately tonight," Jaskier breathed, and instantly, he felt Geralt tense under him. He sighed, knowing that the Witcher probably thought it was on account of his own defectiveness rather than Jaskier's weird feelings. 

He forced himself to push a hand against the rug next to Geralt's head so that he could lean back and look into the man's eyes. 

"There's a perfectly good second bed in the corner," he said softly, nodding his head toward it. "We don't have to share a bed tonight." 

Part of him really wanted Geralt to just grunt his consent and move on. The other part–

"Why?" 

Jaskier's eyebrows shot up. "What? We don't have to share. Isn't that better?" 

Geralt licked his lips hesitantly, and the bard couldn't help but get a little distracted as he watched his tongue move. 

"I sleep better when I sleep with you," the Witcher said after a few moments. "I hardly have nightmares when we're... but of course, yes, we should sleep separately." 

Without another word, he shifted to pull Jaskier quite unceremoniously off his softening cock and stood from the floor stiffly, his back turned to the bard. 

"You can take the larger bed, it's... it seems more comfortable," he muttered, his voice gruff, and set off to grab a cloth and clean himself off. The bard couldn't find his words all of a sudden, his eyes focused on the rigid outline of the man's back. 

That night, as Jaskier watched the Witcher curl up in the smaller bed, which was clearly not long enough for his large frame, he felt like absolute vermin. 

Not two weeks later, Geralt sent him away. 

They parted and came together and parted yet again. Still, their dynamic remained the same: they would meet at an inn in some godforsaken town, enjoy a drink, Geralt would fuck him silly, and then, they would either share a bed or not. Now, though, the Witcher seemed determined not to touch Jaskier than was strictly necessary for their activities. He'd hold Jaskier's wrists over his head, he'd bite into his neck to leave bruises for the next few days, he'd sometimes playfully smack him on the thigh. But as soon as it was over, they would lie there together, both stiff and unsure. Side by side, like a pair of dolls in a box, their backs rigid and their mouths unmoving. 

Jaskier kept telling himself that it was better. The pain in his chest that he felt every time Geralt would give him that hesitant, strange look said otherwise. 

* * *

They parted for a few moons, no news for one of the other. The war against Nilfgaard escalated, and Jaskier was forced to never stay in the same place for longer than a couple of nights. He knew what he looked like – relatively small, delicate-looking hands, a pretty face (if he could say so himself, and he absolutely could) – and he also knew what soldiers looked for in a bard. It wasn't the songs. 

So he traveled, all on foot, as he could never make enough to cover the cost of food and shelter and still save up for a horse. His toenails were broken, and his heels covered in painful callouses, but at least, he stayed alive. Without the help of a brooding Witcher next to him, which was quite an achievement. 

Of course, that streak couldn't have lasted long. 

He knew he should not have taken the forest road that night to get to the inn on the other side of the village. However, it was the shortest way, and he was _exhausted_ , so, like the fool he was, he'd taken that chance. 

And now, he was being mugged by three men in the woods. 

"Pretty little songbird!" 

Jaskier cringed in spite of himself even though he as quaking in his boots. Really? These obtuse men could have at least refrained from making jokes about his profession. 

"What do you have there, little birdie?" 

He felt the first blow land on his back because he'd curled himself around the lute to protect it, cradled in his arms like an infant. His protectiveness seemed to amuse the hooligans, so they only jeered louder, their voices taunting. At some point, he landed on his knees, his eyes squeezed shut as they tugged on the back of his jacket in search for coin. He didn't have anything, that was the problem – so now, it was between his lute and his dignity. He wasn't sure which he would rather they took. 

He shivered as their shins landed on his ribs, bruising them and urging him to cough. If only someone could pass this road, if only– 

An otherworldly screech pierced the air, and he felt himself leave the ground, flying backward as if slowed down until the back of his head hit something solid. He felt the lute slip from his fingers as consciousness swam away from his gaze. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second and final chapter, I wanted to keep this short and sweet! Please drop by to say hi on my tumblr, haganenoheichou!

Waking up felt like wading through thick sludge. Kind of like a swamp, except Jaskier didn't feel like he had physical arms and legs to aid him in the journey. Slowly, his consciousness came back to him together with the limited command of his extremities. He managed to wiggle his fingers just enough to get the attention of whomever it had been who had placed him gently against a tree and covered him in furs.

“He’s awake!” 

_A girl? That can’t be right._

Jaskier's curiosity peaked then, and he slowly opened his eyes, taking a moment to focus on the pretty face of the young girl hanging over his. 

“Are you alright? Do you know where you are?” She asked, her voice shimmering like a bell. A Cintran accent, high-born, by the sound of it, Jaskier thought to himself absently as he observed the girl’s features. She was pale, very pale, and blonde almost to the point of albinism. Her eyes were a vivid color of blue-green, and her brows were furrowed with worry. 

“Are you going to ask me if I remember who the current ruler of Cintra is, too?” Jaskier joked hoarsely, only to see the girl’s expression shutter. Right. Of course. If she was high-born and Cintran, that meant that she was probably not here in the woods by choice. 

“Charming,” she said with a scoff and leaned back, glancing over her shoulder. “I thought you said he had a way with words.” 

"I said he liked to talk, I never said he was good at it," a rough voice grumbled from behind the girl, and Jaskier's stomach dropped. He would recognize that grouchy muttering anywhere. 

“Geralt?” He breathed, straining to sit up but the pain in his head seemed to escalate just then, tethering him to the ground. 

“Don’t move,” the Witcher replied, finally coming into focus and kneeling on the forest floor next to the girl as he inspected Jaskier’s face. “You’re probably concussed, you took quite a pounding.” 

Jaskier had to bite his tongue not to make a dirty joke right then and there. Apparently, he hadn't hit his head quite hard enough. 

"What are you doing here?" He asked instead, hating how weak his voice sounded. He couldn't take his eyes off Geralt, whose face seemed to be precisely the same as the day they had parted on the mountain. Still as annoyingly handsome. 

“Funny, that,” Geralt said, glancing at the girl whose face suddenly took on an expression of guilt. “We were passing by the village on the way to Kaer Morhen when we heard a commotion. As luck would have it, of _course,_ it had to be you, getting mugged by a band of low-lives.”

"I was doing fine; there was no need to rescue me," Jaskier huffed, and Geralt leveled him with a gaze that clearly told him to cut the bullshit. 

“I suppose Ciri here overreacted a little,” Geralt said quietly, glancing at the girl who suddenly found the fallen leaves at their feet quite fascinating. 

Jaskier frowned, his muddled mind working overtime to put the pieces together. 

“Hold on,” he whispered, glancing over at the girl again and then back at Geralt. “Is this…?” 

“The Child Surprise,” Geralt said grimly. The little blonde shot him a look. 

"Ah," Jaskier said, his stomach suddenly pooling with warmth at the way the Witcher's face seemed to soften when he glanced at the girl. Awkward he was, yes, but he also seemed to care for her genuinely. And given everything that had happened over the past weeks, Jaskier supposed that the Witcher was the only family the poor girl had left. What a fate. "It's nice to make your acquaintance, Princess. I see you've inherited your mother's gift for destruction." 

"It's Ciri now," she said stubbornly, a proud tilt to her chin, which was both endearing and somewhat irritating. Jaskier wasn't used to being around royal teenagers. "And you're Jaskier, the bard who wouldn't leave Geralt alone." 

“I suppose so,” Jaskier said, his mood souring instantly. Of course, Geralt would have told his new protegee about the annoying companion who had imposed himself on the Witcher and turned everything to shit. 

“About that,” Geralt said quietly, clearing his throat. Ciri gave him a sidelong glance before nodding and getting off her knees to go off somewhere outside of Jaskier’s field of vision. The Witcher took the central spot then, sitting right across from where the bard was slumped. 

"I wanted to say… I'm sorry," he mumbled, looking everywhere but at Jaskier, whose heart suddenly decided to dance the jig. 

“You what now?” He blurted out, not sure if his ears were working correctly. Geralt was apologizing? And looking appropriately cowed? 

“I said I’m sorry,” Geralt growled, finally meeting his eye. Jaskier thought he heard Ciri giggle in the background. 

The Witcher shuffled uncomfortably. "I said, I'm sorry. Alright? I shouldn't have said the things I said, and I apologize." He glanced at Jaskier expectantly, as if he was waiting for a sentence. 

The bard blinked, taking another moment to make sure that Geralt was actually serious, and this was happening. 

“Not good enough.” 

"Wha-?" Geralt's jaw dropped comically, and Jaskier had to fight against his face's need to split into a grin. The Witcher was surprisingly easy to ruffle sometimes. 

“What do you mean, _not good enough_?” Geralt hissed. “I apologized!” 

“For what you said, yes!” Jaskier replied hotly, fighting against his headache to lean in and stare the Witcher down as intimidatingly as he could. “But you never said sorry for the horrible things you said about me being annoying, for treating me like _garbage_ , for hitting me on the very first day we set off to travel together!” 

“I never wanted a travel companion!” Geralt growled, hackles rising. “I was perfectly fine being alone until _you_ came along and had to ruin my peace!” 

“Oh, and that too!” Jaskier said, now genuinely angry. “You wished for a genie to _kill_ me!” 

“A _djinn_ ,” Geralt said tersely. “And I never wished for that to happen. I saved your life!” 

“ _Yennefer_ saved my life,” the bard corrected. “All you did was stumble about, like the blithering idiot that you are with half a brain cell and not a single sensitive bone in your body!” 

“How _dare_ you–,” 

"I dare!" Jaskier said, almost toppling over as he grabbed the front of Geralt's shirt. They were so close now, their noses were practically touching. He could spend hours examining the flecks of yellow and red in Geralt's mesmerizing eyes. Wait, no, _be mad._

“I will talk to you however I damn well please because you don’t _scare_ me, Geralt of Rivia! You are just a man with two big and admittedly impressive swords, but that's all you are. You're not intimidating to me now, and you never were! So cut the growling and grunting and whatever other forms of communication you consider acceptable that other people don't and just. _Apologize!_ ” 

The two of them stared at each other for a long time, panting. Jaskier could feel Ciri's hovering presence at their side. Still, he refused to look at her, refused to look away from the Witcher's face because that would mean losing. 

“I know,” Geralt finally said. 

"You know what?" Jaskier blanked, allowing his fingers to unfurl from Geralt's collar. The Witcher didn't move back, his eyes still fixed on Jaskier's face, which the bard was sure was now red with emotion and vigor. 

“I know that you were never afraid of me,” Geralt muttered. “You were the only one, even Yennefer–,” Jaskier winced, “–was afraid of what I’d done when she found out about the djinn, but you… You never feared me, you never smelled afraid when you were around me, even when I killed things, killed _people_ in front of you, you never…” 

"Oh, Witcher," Jaskier breathed, unable to take his eyes off Geralt's fledgling emotions, which blossomed on his face. "I'd never be afraid of you, you know that."

Geralt nodded mutely. 

“I left because I was hurt by your words, not because I was afraid you’d… I don’t know, grumble me to death,” the bard explained quietly. Geralt nodded again, having seemingly exceeded his daily word limit. 

"I left because I thought I would be a burden to you like you'd been saying and because I couldn't stand to be around someone who didn't… who didn't feel the way I felt about them," Jaskier said finally, reaching out a tentative, shaking hand to place it on Geralt's shoulder. The Witcher's entire body seemed to lean into the contact, and Jaskier finally allowed himself a small smile. 

“Oh, Melitele, just _kiss_ already, you fools!” 

“ _Ciri!_ ” Geralt roared, only to be rewarded by the girl’s laughter and the skittering of her feet on the forest ground as she ran off. 

He glanced back toward Jaskier, unsure, only to see that the bard was barely suppressing a snicker. 

“Not a word,” he said warningly. “Raising children is harder than it looks.” 

Jaskier couldn’t help himself anymore. He let go, laughing heartily into the Witcher’s grumpy face. Without missing another beat, Geralt leaned in and placed his lips on the bard’s, finally doing what Jaskier had secretly hoped he would do ever since he’d clapped his (unfocused) eyes on him. 

The bard could do nothing but moan into the kiss, weakly stirring to get closer to Geralt, who enveloped him in his arms, an air of familiarity about the action that made Jaskier's heart melt and his knees weak. 

“I’m sorry,” the Witcher breathed between kisses. “I should have never taken you for granted, I…” 

“You are forgiven if you can prove that it’s a lesson learned.” Jaskier covered Geralt’s mouth with his own. Geralt groaned into the kiss and then pulled back, his hand going to cup Jaskier’s face gently. 

"I promise, I won't ever treat you like a burden," he whispered, leaning his forehead against Jaskier's. The bard closed his eyes, inhaling the musky scent of the Witcher, sweat and grime mixed with the distinctive smell of potions. 

“That’s right,” Jaskier said proudly, his hand reaching out to cover the one Geralt had rested on his cheek. “And you can’t break a promise, you’re a Witcher.” 

“Not technically true,” Geralt responded, making the bard scoff. “But I won’t break this one. That I can tell you. I spent too much time staying away from you and denying myself the one thing that made me feel like my life was more than just monsters and death.” 

Jaskier sighed contently and kissed him again, leaning his full body weight onto the larger man. He closed his eyes as he listened to Geralt’s heartbeat, still slow, but considerably faster than usual. _I made that happen_ , he thought giddily. _I made the mighty White Wolf all flustered._

“Wait a moment,” he said, leaning back to look into Geralt’s confused eyes. “You’re not just doing this because you want Ciri to have an _actual_ father figure?” 

That earned him another grumble. 

* * *

“Oh, gods, you are–,”

“Keep it down, Ciri is probably nearby–,”

“ _Geralt,_ my love, my _heart_ , adopted father of my adopted child, if you are trying to tell me that she can hear us all across this entire _gigantic deserted castle,_ you are clearly–,” 

“ _Father! Papa!_ ” 

“ _Shit,_ ” Jaskier hissed, sliding off Geralt’s dick so hard he knocked their foreheads together. Geralt let out a frustrated groan but moved to cover them both with a blanket as the bedroom door swung open to reveal Cirilla, covered in scraped and bruises from her training in all her seventeen-year-old glory. 

“Oh,” she said, smirking. “I see, so when you told me to go train on my own because you wanted me to be _independent_ , what you really wanted is to stick your–,” 

“ _Cirilla!_ ” Jaskier gasped, only to make her smirk wider. 

“What of it?” Geralt said, his grin matching his daughter’s. 

“Geralt, you’re not helping,” Jaskier stage-whispered at him. 

Ciri snickered. “It’s alright, Papa, it’s not like I have no idea what you two get up to when you think I’m not in the earshot.” 

Jaskier shot her a dark look. “I’ll have a conversation with Yennefer about sealing your mouth shut for being such a brat.” 

Cirilla laughed at that. “If you think Aunt Yen would ever do anything to prevent me from teasing the two of you–,” 

“You have a point.” 

“ _Anyway_ ,” Cirilla said, glancing at her father. “There’s a bunch of drowners down by the river. Mind if I take care of them?” She asked, brandishing her sword with a bloodthirsty look on her face. Jaskier had to suppress a sigh – the girl was clearly taking more and more after Geralt every single day. 

“Just be careful, bring the oil bag with you,” Geralt said, flopping back down onto the bed. 

“Will do!” Ciri chirped and scampered off, the door shutting behind her with a thud. 

Jaskier did sigh rather dramatically then as he lay down and placed his head on Geralt’s chest. 

“What now?” Geralt asked, feigning annoyance. 

“High-grade parenting, that was,” Jaskier said with a reproachful look. “You’d do well to be worried about her from time to time, you know.” 

“I _am_ worried about her,” Geralt said, glancing down at his husband. “That doesn’t mean that we should coddle her.” 

“It wouldn’t kill her to study music or poetry for a change, is all,” Jaskier mumbled. “All you two numbskulls do all day is swing your swords and throw around spells.” 

“Signs,” Geralt corrected. “And she spent the first years of her life studying music and poetry back in Cintra. I suppose the experience rather turned her off.” 

Jaskier sighed deeply. “Oh, the woe, living a life where one does not enjoy the finer things!”

“I do enjoy the finer things in life.” Geralt smirked as he reached down to squeeze Jaskier’s behind. The bard responded with an undignified squeal. 

“Now, she will take at least half an hour to take care of those drowners,” the Witcher said, leaning on his forearms as he loomed over Jaskier. “What say you we spend those enjoying the finer things together?” 

Jaskier grasped the back of Geralt’s head and pulled him in for a heated kiss, his legs winding around Geralt’s waist. 

“Honestly, Geralt, stick to growling. Leave the wordplay to me.” 


End file.
